


him

by bpdcerberus



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: (not making excuses for him or his behavious just sayin), M/M, he cant stop thinking about how proko is dead, he wants to be better but doesnt know how, joey tries to be soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 17:30:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10723953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bpdcerberus/pseuds/bpdcerberus
Summary: this is really just prose i wrote. not really edited at all just kinda slapped it on the paper. might add to it idk





	him

**Author's Note:**

> this is really just prose i wrote. not really edited at all just kinda slapped it on the paper. might add to it idk

I traced the pad of my thumb over his face, soft and gentle. The curve of his cheekbones under my fingers made my heart melt out of its cold, icy shell, just for a moment. His pale eyes were like laser beams searing my skin and warming my cheeks. I'd dreamed him so much softer than he had been. His cheekbones were sharper, before. His personality was brighter, like a firecracker. I could do better, I thought, but he remembered his death last time. Killing this pseudo-him to make him better would just make him even less human than he was. 

The early morning sunlight was creamy and palpable, moldable and bendable like boy in my arms. Soft and bright. So easily dampened out. The bedsheets were vast, and endless meadow of weed-smelling fabric and stains from late nights pressed close together with lips on lips and hands on hips and on stomachs and on backs. His breath slipped past my collarbones like a whisper, a sigh escaping his lips as his breath went out. He closed his laser beam eyes, soft lips on my chapped ones, again and again. His hair was curly. Had it been curly before? I couldn't remember. Maybe the curls had been pressed into his hair by my hands, gripping too tightly to him, telling him ‘Mine, mine, mine’. Maybe his curls were a symbol of the walls I kept around him. I hated myself as I thought he looked much prettier with his prison-bar hair than his feathery-thin hair from before. Maybe if he had kept his feather-hair, he would fly away from me. I think I would fly away from me, too, if my wings weren’t clipped and broken.

His hair is soft between my fingers. I move it away from his pale, perfect face, kissing his pale, perfect lips. His hair had been bottle-blonde before, but now it was golden, flaxen like the sunshine had made his hair from its own beams. It was shiny and perfect and soft. He was shiny and perfect and soft. His hands had no callouses, no scrapes, no scars. His nails never grew, his cuticles were always the same. I’d forgotten about growing when I’d dreamed him. I’d wanted him to stay the same, to stay mine, forever. His hair never grew, his nails never got longer, he never got taller. Is this how he was in my mind? A golden boy that’s all my own? I brush my hand over his cheek again, and he looks at me with a face that tells me ‘yours’ like he can read my mind. Maybe I was wrong about his eyes. They weren’t laser beams, they were lie detectors. They were thought-readers. Maybe his eyes were all three, the ultimate weapon against the army of me. Yes, I thought. He was the only one who could break me, the only one who could melt me. At the same time he was the only one who could save me, the only one keeping my head afloat, my only constant in my life of chaos. The ocean was a raging thing, trying to swallow me whole. I had no reason not to let myself get sucked under, I had no reason to want to breathe. But I knew I was wrong when I thought that when I looked at him. He was my reason, my beacon, my sunshine. My everything. My world.


End file.
